12 Days Of Lassiet
by Loafer
Summary: Christmas is approaching, and Juliet and Carlton get caught up in the season in an unexpected way. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: even Santa would not let me own _**psych**_.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: Christmas is approaching, and Juliet and Carlton get caught up in the season in an unexpected way. Was supposed to be a two-shot... then a three-shot... now a four-shot! Here's part one.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Look, Carlton," Juliet said with a laugh, "It's a Partridge. On Peartree Road."

He didn't mean to, because he was in a foul mood, but he felt a smile coming nonetheless. Things were looking up anyway; part of his mood was due to Juliet having been away all morning testifying in court just when McNab was at his Christmas cheeriest.

Carlton didn't do Christmas cheer. He liked Christmas just fine, but not the cheer part. Or the incessant TV ads part. Or the carolers part. Or the trying to get around shoppers part. Or most any other part. But he liked the lights, and he liked midnight Mass even if no one knew he went, and he liked the _idea_ of it (not the commercialism, but the real idea behind it all), and he liked seeing Juliet at this time of year, because she loved Christmas and it made her glow all the more.

They were looking at the list of residents in a neighborhood seemingly targeted for pre-holiday burglaries, and she had spotted the name before he did.

"Be funnier if his first name was Keith," he suggested, only to be met with a blank stare. "Danny?" He sighed. "I suppose Reuben Kincaid is out, too."

Juliet laughed. "I guess so. Is this one of those rare times our age difference is at work?"

"Looks like." He hadn't exactly been a fan of _The Partridge Family_, although he admired Reuben Kincaid's weary determination to contain the madness, but it was on most afternoons after school when he was a kid and he couldn't help but sort of… accidentally… watch it. A little.

But Juliet had moved on, gesturing to the calendar. "Look! It's actually twelve days before Christmas."

"The twelve days start _on_ Christmas, O'Hara, and end on January 6."

"I know, Carlton, but it's still funny."

He glanced at her, and dammit, smiled again. "_You're_ funny."

Juliet grinned. "You're going to end up liking Christmas, you know."

"To which I say bah, with an extra humbug," he retorted, and resisted the impulse to tell her he liked _her_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She handed him a large mug of coffee along with an updated stack of the witness statements, and he offered her the box of chocolate turtles Sergeant Allen had foisted upon him when he came into work.

"Ooh, thanks. I love turtles."

He knew; it was one of her weaknesses. He suspected Allen knew it was one of her weaknesses too and also knew Carlton wouldn't toss it for that reason alone. However, he wasn't sure why Allen, who spent most of her time glaring at him, would deign to give him any kind of gift. He'd considered it might be poisoned, but if that were the case, she was more likely to start with his coffee than a sweet.

Juliet was happy anyway; and after wiping a stray smear of chocolate from her lovely mouth, she looked into the box as if contemplating a second treat. "Ha," she said. "Don't those look like doves?"

Carlton studied the two oddly-shaped turtles she was pointing to. "Not really."

"Come on, not even a little?" Her expression was slightly wicked.

"O'Hara, are you trying to get me to identify two turtle _doves_? On what you'd call the second day of Christmas?"

She smiled innocently. "Did I say that?"

"Let's just look at the statements," he said firmly.

"Okay! We'll start with the Partridges," she said blandly, and Carlton rolled his eyes, but couldn't help being amused.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet walked alongside her partner down Peartree Road while he went over what they knew of the last burglary—a case in their hands because the homeowner had walked in on it and gotten shot as a result.

Carlton was in a fairly good mood. She stole a glance at his profile and was relieved that so far this Christmas season hadn't driven him to any homicidal rages (although she'd had to warn McNab to dial "the Christmas cheer" back several notches).

In fact, she'd collected a delightful number of smiles from the blue-eyed Irishman, and those were his Christmas gifts to her whether he knew it or not.

They passed the Partridge house; she gave him another glance. He glanced back, a reluctant smile warming his face, but he said nothing and she kept quiet too. Best not to press her luck.

Their target was the next home, that of Pierre and Marta DuBois.

Marta DuBois led them to the bright kitchen overlooking the back yard, its lovely landscaping setting a tranquil mood. Juliet made a sincere remark of admiration, and was transfixed as several very interesting creatures ambled across the grass.

"What kind of chickens are those?" They had creamy chests and bellies, with coffee-colored top feathers.

Marta came to join her. "They're Faverolles. My husband gave them to me last year to decorate the yard. The one on the left is Claudette, the one in the middle is Henriette, and the third one is Musette."

Carlton, somewhere behind Juliet, cleared his throat. "Three French hens, in other words."

Marta gave him a beneficent smile, and Juliet—who was laughing—a puzzled look. "So they are. Just in time for Christmas, yes?"

He took pity on Juliet's temporary lack of self-control and focused Marta's attention on the case, but it was a while before Juliet could focus on it herself.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Another day, another development in the case: the homeowner, out of the hospital and inspecting his house more thoroughly, was able to produce a more complete list of what was missing.

Sitting next to Carlton on Mr. Carroll's leather sofa, Juliet tried to put out of her mind that the the faint scent of his aftershave was rather pleasant. The Christmas season was making her feel unacceptably warm and fuzzy about her partner, and she needed to resist that.

Mr. Carroll explained, "They were crystal sculptures, in the back of my wife's china cabinet. Our friend made them. They're worth several hundred dollars each."

"You've had them assessed?"

"It's what he could easily have sold them for. They're each about six inches tall. Very detailed. He once designed for Swarovski. Beautiful work."

"You have photos?" Juliet asked, and Mr. Carroll immediately handed them across to her.

"They had to move the china to get to them. It's like they knew what they were looking for."

"They may have," Carlton agreed, leaning in closer to see what Juliet saw. "Birds?"

"Yes. Dove, eagle, heron, owl. You can have those photos. I've got copies."

"Who knew you had them?"

"Well, my wife and I, and some of our family. And our friend who designed them, of course. We didn't display them because they're fragile. But no one we know would need to steal them," he said.

"This name here," Juliet said, pointing to the back of the photos. "Who is this?"

Mr. Carroll took a look. "Oh, that's James. James Colly, the designer."

Juliet felt Carlton tensing beside her. "I see."

"Colly birds," Carlton managed.

"Four," Juliet said helpfully.

He had to excuse himself, ostensibly to make a phone call.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"It's funny. Admit it."

Carlton would not admit it. Well, except for the laughter he muffled with his napkin—which she saw—he would not admit it. "Freaky coincidences. But not funny."

Juliet was smug. "Come on! Four Colly birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a Partridge on Peartree? With only eight days to go before Christmas?"

He put his napkin down. "Coincidence."

"Carlton," she said, and her voice was sing-song. "I see that light in your eyes. You are trying not to laugh. You're trying not to give in, but I know you. I know you better than _anyone_, and you _know_ I know you better than anyone, and any minute now you're going to start laughing and not be able to stop."

"Then you'll call 911," he said firmly. She did know him better than anyone else, and certainly better than he _wanted_ her to know him.

"Not immediately." She sipped her tea. "After lunch let's check out a few pawn shops to look for items from the Carroll house."

"No way." At her surprised—and all too innocent—expression, he elucidated, "Tomorrow. We are not running the risk of you spotting any clusters of gold rings _today_." He'd won, because she giggled, delightfully pink.

"I guess that would be too easy," she admitted. "Random is so much better."

The waitress appeared, somewhat frazzled, and set down Carlton's BLT and fries. To Juliet, as she set down a plate with a club sandwich, she said apologetically, "I'm sorry, but there was an incident in the kitchen. We only have some of your side, but I'll have the rest out in a minute."

She hurried off again while Juliet grinned at her plate.

"Random really _is_ so much better," she repeated.

There were only a few onion rings alongside her club sandwich. Five, to be precise. But they were definitely golden.

Carlton gave in and laughed, and that seemed to be all Juliet needed.

It was heartwarming to feel that something as simple as laughing with her would make her happy—that _anything_ he could do would make her happy.

For sure, it made him damned happy to see _Juliet_ happy because she had five gold rings with her lunch on the (sort of) fifth day of Christmas.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He was pretty confident there'd be no run-ins with geese today. Just a feeling. The Carroll neighborhood—French hens notwithstanding—wasn't a geese sort of area, and he had no plans to visit any farms or even any reason to expect to see geese flying overhead, let alone depositing eggs anywhere.

Juliet pretty much admitted their streak was over, too.

"I'm not giving up all hope," she said somewhat defiantly. "But yeah, I'll be pretty surprised if we get goosed today."

"Let alone six times."

She laughed, suggested he stay away from Miriam in the Business office just in case, and they went on working.

Mid-morning, on their way back to talk to Mr. Carroll about his Colly birds—one of which had been discovered in a pawn shop across town—Carlton stood with Juliet in line at Starbucks.

"Didn't you once tell me cops didn't wait in line, even at Starbucks?" she prodded.

He maintained what he hoped was a Sphinx-like demeanor. "It's Christmas. I'm being kind to the strangers in front of me."

"That's very generous of you," she said mildly.

Of course she had long ago put a stop to him barging to the front of the line for coffee or anything else not directly crime-related. She'd either stand firm where she was and quietly make him feel guilty for being an ass, or she'd call him back with a sharp tone he was powerless to resist.

What he would never tell her was that even when he was on his own, he rarely cut in front of anyone anymore with a flash of his badge. Unless he was homicidally caffeine-deprived, he waited (im)patiently in line behind everyone else.

Today he was oddly mellow, and he was going with the flow. He was also enjoying standing so close to her, not just because he was a perv but because she smelled so nice, all lilacs and golden-haired warmth.

Juliet struck up a conversation with the young woman in front of her. "Is that a Kindle Fire?"

"Yes, I just got it. Early Christmas present." The girl smiled. "I'm making sure all my favorites are still here in my library."

Juliet sighed. "I don't get to read as much as I'd like. I usually fall asleep in the middle of a book."

"Try short stories," the girl said. "I can recommend about a million of them. You like Sophie Kinsella?"

"She wrote the Shopaholic series, right?"

"Yep. Last year she put out a short story only in e-book format… here it is." She showed Juliet the screen.

Carlton admired the curve of Juliet's smile, but wasn't prepared for her to turn and catch him in the act. Her deep blue eyes were lit with great amusement. "Look at this, Carlton."

"Is it a story about coffee?" he inquired.

"Better," she assured him.

"It's a Christmas story. Only 28 pages," the Kindle girl said. "You could probably read it while we're waiting."

He shook his head warningly at Juliet. "We don't have time for that."

"You have time to read the title." She clasped his arm to draw him closer. "Look."

It only took a second to see why she was so amused.

He glared at her.

"Say it, Carlton."

"I will not."

"Say it," she cajoled.

The girl was confused. "What is it?"

"_Six Geese-A-Laying_." Juliet was giggling again, and he wanted both to shake her and squeeze her. And maybe kiss her, but that was only because he was in a funny holiday mood.

"Stop laughing." He tried to be stern.

She couldn't, however.

The girl was next at the counter, and Juliet turned to face him. "You know what this means, right?"

"No, O'Hara, I do not know what this means, except fate is playing tricks on us."

"Exactly. Fate is sending us a message."

"What the hell kind of message is planting lines from an old Christmas song into our daily lives?"

"It means it's just for us, Carlton!" She was beaming, face aglow and smile wide. "It's _our_ Christmas."

He was just about unable to stop himself from bending to kiss her. Swallowing hard, he asked evenly, "But what does _that_ mean?"

Juliet reached up to touch his warm face—something she had never, ever done before and which immediately caused him to feel even more heat there. "I don't know exactly. But isn't it special?"

Yes. Yes, it was. Just like she was.

"Don't you feel it?" Her voice was soft and persistent. "It's kind of wonderful."

"Yes," he managed, missing her touch the instant she dropped her hand. "It kind of is."

Juliet was gazing at him intently, and he couldn't quite decipher the light in her lovely eyes. "This is going to be a good Christmas, Carlton. Maybe the best ever."

As far as he was concerned it was already the best—and there were still six days to go.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2

**. . . .  
****. . .**

She felt Carlton's uncertainty when she approached his desk in the morning. She was a little uncertain herself.

It had been nice to touch his lean face, gratifying to feel the heat of his skin and see the half-panicked, half-longing look in those crystal blue eyes. It had even been nice to see how embarrassed he was afterwards, as they got their coffee and drove on to their destination.

There was a time when she would have taken his discomfort personally, but not anymore. They'd come too far, been too much at each other's side, over too many years.

This felt like the year things could change, and Juliet was ready for that change.

He looked up, only faintly flushed. "Morning, O'Hara."

"Hey, partner. McNab just gave me a phone message from Jack Singer; he lives across the street from the Carrolls? Says he found some of the Carrolls' stuff in the lane behind his house."

For a moment he stared at her, but she knew that look: he was thinking about the case. Then one dark eyebrow went up. "You realize this means a singer lives across from a carol?"

She laughed. "Near a partridge, on Peartree."

He readily high-fived her, relaxed already. "You sent someone to deal with the goods?"

"Yes. Singer wants to talk to us about something else, but not at his place."

"Interesting. Where's he work?" Carlton slung his jacket on.

Juliet glanced at the note. "The community center in Alta Roja."

"Let's roll."

"That was easy," she commented, following him back out the door she'd only just entered.

"No reason to sit around drinking coffee."

"Drinking coffee is a good reason to sit around drinking coffee."

"That's true," he admitted.

Coffee made her think of Starbucks yesterday, and a quick look at him showed her his color had gone high again.

But this was okay, she thought. If he was thinking along the same lines she was, it was more than okay.

Jack Singer was in the middle of coaching basketball; his team appeared to be a ragtag collection of post-high-school young men who were more than happy to be told to play 'horse' while he spoke to the detectives.

"Over here," he said, leading them toward the double doors on the far side of the gym. "I didn't want to say too much over the phone."

"We're listening, Mr. Singer."

He began a hesitant tale which involved his eighteen-year-old daughter and her boyfriend, a college freshman he didn't particularly like. He was concerned that the boyfriend, Nick Shepherd, might have something to do with the burglaries, if not the shooting.

The items he'd found that morning were in the brush alongside the lane which separated his lot from the fields beyond and included some DVDs he knew came from the Carroll house because they were helpfully marked as such—and happened to be among his daughter's favorites.

Juliet wasn't even surprised when he said her name was Noelle.

Jack Singer looked around again and said, "Come on through here to my office." He pushed open the double doors.

"Swans!" someone yelled peremptorily.

Carlton's hand immediately went to his gun; Juliet yanked at his arm before Singer (or anyone else) noticed. "Sorry," Carlton mumbled.

_Wait… _

_Swans? _

Singer had stopped short to allow a gaggle of kids to hurry by on the other side. The voice, belonging to someone she couldn't see, went on, "If you're not in formation in the pool in five minutes, I'm calling off practice!"

Grinning over his shoulder—and still blocking the doorway—Singer explained, "Our first synchronized swimming class."

"Swans?" Juliet asked, hardly able to believe it, even as she registered the scent of chlorine and the sound of splashing.

"Yeah, the Swann family—two Ns—there's a bunch of them. Come on," he said, and led them through the swimming pool area toward his office.

Juliet felt Carlton touch her elbow. He was highly amused and that was progress too: he wasn't denying the happy madness which had descended upon them.

"Are there _seven_ Swanns, by any chance?" he inquired of Singer.

The man did the math as he unlocked his office door. "Think so. Hey, that's funny. Never thought of that before. Seven Swanns a-swimming."

"You have no idea," Carlton murmured, and his private smile for Juliet made her feel all kinds of hope.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

"Jerk!" The voice was low and angry.

Carlton swung around. "Lady, I wasn't even _talking_ to you—"

Juliet covered her mouth—and her laughter. The woman had her back to them, and was glowering at a churro vendor about ten feet away. The vendor shrugged and turned to his next customer.

"Not you," the woman said apologetically. "I asked for directions and he was incredibly—and _unnecessarily_," she added more loudly, so he could hear, "rude. And _mean_!"

Carlton leveled a cold blue glare at the vendor, who began to look nervous, as well as to move his cart a little further away.

"What directions do you need, ma'am?" Juliet asked her.

The woman, whose gray t-shirt bore the embroidered name 'Susan,' sighed and rattled off an address in a pricey gated residential area about twenty minutes west.

Juliet and Carlton had just come out of the office building where they'd interviewed Holly Donner, a recent victim of the home burglaries whose children were Noelle Singer's age and attended the same school. They were working on the theory that Noelle's boyfriend was indeed part of the burglary ring, and Holly Donner hadn't given them any reason to think it couldn't be true.

Carlton told Susan relatively pleasantly how to get where she was going.

She noticed his badge as he was talking (later Julie asked herself why Susan's gaze had traveled to Carlton's lower body), and said, "Oh, you're police officers."

"Yes, ma'am. But you wouldn't have needed us if certain citizens behaved like citizens instead of thugs and hooligans."

The churro guy moved away faster.

"You can run, but you can't hide," Carlton muttered. "O'Hara, get his permit number."

Juliet said serenely, "I will not."

He glowered at her; she smiled.

Susan glanced between them. "Partners a long time?"

"Twenty-eight years," Juliet said at once, thinking it would seem like no time at all, and heard Carlton snicker.

Susan laughed. "Somehow I doubt that. Anyway, thanks for the help. We're all set now." Looking beyond them, she yelled, "Girls! Time to go!"

Across the street, a number of other women in gray t-shirts had been milling around jewelry vendors and taco carts, and one by one they ambled closer, aiming at a large white panel van parked nearby.

Carlton was unable to not be suspicious. "Ma'am, you're not part of a burglary ring, are you?" At Juliet's poke to his arm, he said, "_What_? Sometimes they confess right out."

Susan wasn't offended. "I promise: we only clean houses; we don't clean them _out_." She waved and headed toward the van, and Juliet noticed the letters on the back of her shirt read "MCS."

The other women's shirts said the same thing, and Juliet counted as they piled into the vehicle.

Eight.

"Eight," Carlton said, bemused. "But no trace of a cow anywhere, O'Hara. Not so much as an stylized udder."

"Huh." She stood next to him, feeling the heat of him and liking it on this crisp December day.

The van pulled away, and as it did, they were able to read the business name emblazoned on the side.

"Oh, good Lord," Carlton said with disdain.

Juliet started laughing, and wasn't sure she could stop. "It's Fate! I keep telling you, it's Fate!"

"Well, Fate should be damned embarrassed. That is the worst pun _ever_."

But he was grinning, oh yes he was, as the Milliken Cleaning Service van drove out of sight.

"Eight maids of Milliken. _Now_, as God is my witness, I _have_ seen everything."

_Oh no you haven't_, Juliet thought as she brought her laughter under control. _You haven't seen _me_ yet, not the way I hope you will very soon_.

But she was pretty sure Fate was going to help her out with that.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Carlton had been feeling a semi-constant buzz for several days. Ever since Juliet had touched his face at Starbucks, ever since she'd let him know she had… an _interest_ in him, ever since he'd started to think the impossible could come true, he'd felt a low-level thrumming from head to toe.

Juliet, as it happened, _might_ just like him. At least a little.

As a woman likes a man. In the conventional sense.

In the conventional, _but_-_rarely-happens-to-Carlton-Lassiter_ sense.

In the _this-might-kill-me_ sense.

Best Christmas ever, honestly, and still a few days to go.

It was going to break down, of course. They were off Christmas Eve and day, although he was on call because he was always on call (what else was he going to do on holidays except wait to be called in?), and he was sure she had visits with friends lined up. They wouldn't see each other (_you could ask to see her_) and so wouldn't have any opportunity (_just ask her_) to let Fate's silly-ass sense of humor to run wild (_moron: this is the time, over all other times, when she _will_ say yes, so ASK HER already_) with a dumbass old song he didn't even much like.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" he asked abruptly, without having had any intention of speaking at all.

Juliet looked up from the photos. They were in the conference room, studying the crime scene photos from the Carroll and now Donner burglaries, searching for similarities.

Her dark blue eyes were guileless. "Well, on Christmas Eve I'm invited for dinner at Henry's. You could come too."

"No thanks." He could tolerate Henry, but where there was Henry, there would be Spencer Jr. Where there was Spencer Jr., there would be Spencer Jr. flirting with Juliet. Where _that_ was, he would not be.

Juliet was disappointed. "There's room. He actually told me to invite you."

_That was to make _you_ feel better_, he thought. _If _Henry_ wanted me there, he'd have invited me himself_.

"Carlton?"

"Not my scene," he said shortly, and turned a page of the report.

"Well, if you won't come, then we should have lunch." Her tone was emphatic. "And then after I leave Henry's, we can… I don't know. Have a drink."

He looked up, surprised, and to his greater surprise, she was blushing.

"O'Hara? Are you—" No. He couldn't say it.

"Asking you out?" Her blush was deeper. "Yes. I am. I'll call you when I leave there and we can meet somewhere, and if places close early, you can come to my apartment and drink spiked eggnog with me."

He thought of something a psychotherapist said during his divorce, a quote attributed to Bob Marley: _truth is, everybody's going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for._

Eggnog wouldn't be suffering. Not if it was with Juliet on Christmas Eve.

"Okay." Was his voice husky?

Didn't matter: her smile lit up the room and his heart and that was all he could process.

McNab stuck his head in the door, oblivious to The Moment he was interrupting. "Just had some more of the Carroll items turn up at a pawn shop. Owner says he has video footage."

Juliet was on her feet fast, but Carlton didn't mind. He wasn't sure _his_ legs would work at all, and if she was between him and the door, no one would see him lurching.

On the way over to the pawn shop, she was quiet, but whenever he peeked at her, she was smiling.

His low-level thrumming notched up a bit.

It made him 'nicer' than usual to the pawn shop owner, or nicer than he usually was to pawn shop owners until he _believed_ they didn't deal in stolen goods. Since this case had gotten a lot of press because of the shooting, a number of shops were finding it behooved them to cooperate with the law to the fullest.

Rudy Snow looked weary. He didn't even say hello when they came in, but merely gestured to the back office while his able and well-tattooed associate took over the counter.

The security video was pretty clear, but the young man who brought in the bits of jewelry—and one Colly bird—must have known he was being filmed. He wore heavy-rimmed glasses, had his hair pulled back in a pony-tail, and kept his head down. He touched nothing, careful not even to brush his fingertips across the counter, and kept the envelope from which the items slid.

Once the merchandise was closer to Snow than to the suspect, Snow told him flat out he recognized it as stolen property, and the guy took off.

The associate had chased him—netting the envelope, which fell out of the runner's back pocket—and that too lay on Snow's desk with the loot.

"Very nice, Mr. Snow," Carlton said, somewhat impressed. "You've obviously been down this road before."

"I want my customers to be aboveboard so I can stay in business. The less opportunity I give anyone to shut me down or put me in jail, the happier I am." Said with an air of utter weariness, the word 'happier' didn't quite fit, but Carlton would take it.

"The police department and the city of Santa Barbara, along with the Carrolls, thank you sincerely." Juliet bagged the envelope and other items.

The associate buzzed through. "Hey… how you feel about ceramics again?"

"Indifferent," Snow said, eyeing the intercom with some disdain.

"But they're naked."

Carlton and Juliet glanced at each other and then at Snow.

Snow spoke to the machine. "The customers?"

"Uh. No. The ceramics."

He sighed. "I'll come take a look."

Yeah, well, most men would.

They followed him out into the store proper. The customer was an white-bearded elderly man, eyes-a-twinkle (_no, Lassiter, it is not Kris Kringle; stop that crap right now_). "I brought them back from the war," he said most genially, picking up one of the figurines and winding it at the base.

Carlton, with Juliet's palpable amusement a very real sensation not just at his side but… all over, gave the ceramics a look.

"There used to be ten," the not-Kris man said, still twinkling. "But my cat knocked one over."

The figures, which were indeed naked, represented ladies in various dancing poses.

"Prancer is such a rascal," not-Kris added affectionately, finished winding the figurine in his hand, and the little nude brunette twirled on her pedestal quite merrily.

Carlton felt as if his heart was whirling around merrily too, and he looked down at Juliet to find her smiling up at him.

"Nine ladies dancing," she whispered. "We're almost there."

As if he knew everything, not-Kris reached over and patted her on the shoulder. "Merry Christmas, young lady. This new year will bring you a great deal of happiness."

She thanked him, and they left in silence, but in the car, she reached over to take Carlton's hand for a long lovely moment, and said one more time, "We're almost there."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet put her jacket over the back of her chair, glancing across at Carlton's empty desk and missing him immediately.

Coffee, then. She went to the coffee bar behind her desk and was pouring a cup when he strode up to her from nowhere and said flatly, "O'Hara, let's just get one thing out of the way."

_Oh._

_Is it that you smell good?  
Is it that your blue, blue eyes are simply stunning?  
Is it that you're looking at me the way you're looking at me? As if I'm your… Christmas?_

With great effort, she remembered how to speak English. "What's that?"

"There is simply no good reason for lords to leap. Period." He leaned in closer, to speak more quietly, probably not realizing his heat and innate Carltonness would affect her the way it had been affecting her for days now. "Not that I don't want to see any." He blushed, and she was charmed. "But I don't see how it's possible."

"Well, you didn't think we'd see eight maids a-milking either. Or ladies dancing. Or six geese."

"We shouldn't even count the maids," he scoffed. "That was just appalling punnery."

Although his words were blunt, there was a light of amusement in his eyes which Juliet did not miss and which only encouraged her—after a quick look around—to put her hand on his chest, absorbing his body heat through the shirt, and say with a smile, "Fate's point seems to be that not only _can_ anything happen, but everything _is_ happening."

He cast a glance down at her hand, and after his own quick look around, covered it with his own warm fingers for a moment. "It'll be snowing next, won't it?"

Juliet smiled. "I wouldn't be surprised. I do wonder why you're not more freaked out about this."

She also wondered why _she_ wasn't more freaked about this… except it all felt right, and long overdue.

Carlton was startled, but did not withdraw—although he did drop his hand (and she hers) when Dobson walked by. "I don't know." He hesitated. "I should be. I don't even understand what 'this' is."

Knowing she had to give him some kind of answer, and knowing kissing him was not the best move for their current setting, she settled on mere words to express it. "'This' is two people who have worked closely together for years, who have been through all kinds of trouble together, having a golden opportunity to step back and see… _more_. And _go_ for more." She couldn't resist touching his arm, sliding her hand down to caress his.

He stilled a moment, allowing the touch. "And if we seem to be getting a little help from... some... other source, then..."

"Then we should stand back and let it happen," she whispered.

The blue of his eyes flared bright and intense, and he turned his hand to capture hers, hidden by the coffee bar from any curious onlookers.

"We should." He cleared his throat. "We will. But how in the hell Fate's going to put ten leaping lords in our path is beyond me."

Miller came up, chuckling. "Hey, check this out." He held a tablet computer and started a YouTube video. "A rat got loose in Westminster during one of their sessions."

"Whose sessions?" Juliet asked, trying to wrest her mind back to the real world.

Carlton was already watching the video, and even as Miller described what they were seeing, it became self-evident. Filmed a few weeks earlier, it showed members of the British House Of Lords leaping from their seats in the Chambers as what appeared to be a large rat scurried along the aisle.

"I'll be damned," Carlton said, his voice low and wondering.

Miller laughed. "They say the guy who filmed this with his phone was censured."

"Sort of like you might be if it turns out that's not police-related," Chief Vick said from behind them, brandishing an empty coffee mug and a frown.

"Sorry, Chief." Miller retracted the tablet and knew better than to linger; Carlton mumbled something and went to his desk, and Juliet hoped she didn't look too idiotic as she smiled and took her own mug back to her chair.

After Vick had returned to her office, Juliet's phone rang: Carlton.

"Did you count ten? In the video?"

She glanced at him and noted how tightly he was holding his phone. "Honestly, I don't think it matters. There _were_ Lords, and they _were_ leaping. Are we going to quibble with Fate about numbers?"

Across the aisle, he was staring at her, and she thought maybe there was serious amazement-slash-fear in those huge blue eyes.

But he said, "We should stock up on earplugs today."

"Um... okay. Why?"

"We have a buttload of pipers and drummers coming up, O'Hara. We need to be prepared."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Christmas Eve.

Specifically, 11 a.m. Christmas Eve.

Carlton paced in the hallway outside his condo. He'd tried pacing _in_ the condo, but he really needed more room, and the long quiet halls were perfect. He had his phone handy, and he was dressed for lunch, and he was nervous.

After work last night, he'd walked Juliet to her car and paused to simply look at her. She adjusted his lapel, which needed no adjusting, and he let his hand go to her waist, and they were so close that he knew anyone who so much as glanced their way would know instantly There Was Something Going On.

But it was already dark, and they'd stayed late, and the parking lot was empty, and Carlton couldn't wait anymore—and didn't think he'd be slapped away, either—and simply leaned down and kissed her.

Juliet sighed against his lips and kissed him back, sweet and warm, heat and coffee and Christmas.

"Hi," she whispered. "I've been waiting for that."

"Not as long as I have." The admission came easily, which surprised him.

Juliet's eyes were wide. "Tell me."

"No," he said, his fear back. "Not yet."

"You still think this is a fluke?"

Carlton studied her lovely, upturned face and spoke the truth. "I think I'm not a lucky guy when it comes to women, O'Hara, and I'd… I'd have to be the luckiest man in the history of the universe to…" He swallowed. "To win you."

She was motionless for a few moments, but then smiled and stood on tiptoes to kiss his jaw and trail her warm fingertips along his earlobe. "After the holiday," she whispered, "we'll call Guinness."

Now, nearly eighteen hours later (but not for the first time), he was asking himself if he was insane.

Juliet O'Hara, willing to take a romantic chance on _him_?

Because of an old song with nonsensical lyrics?

Was he Dumbass McDumberson, fresh off the boat from the District of Dumbth, wearing the official "I'm A Dumbass" shirt, singing the Dumbass anthem ("If I weren't such a dumbass, I would know the lyrics")?

Probably.

No, definitely.

Screw it; too late to back out now. He drove to the restaurant they'd agreed on, an Italian spot near the boardwalk, and found Juliet waiting outside, hair golden, blue eyes lovely, winning smile, altogether gorgeous.

Like every day, really.

She was wearing a Christmas tree pin and dangly star earrings and he kissed her on the cheek, but before he could withdraw, she turned her head so their lips met instead.

"Oh," he murmured, and_ let it happen_, something he wasn't familiar with in his adult life but which seemed to be working out pretty well with Juliet.

It was inevitable that the overhead music when they entered the restaurant would be _The Twelve Days of Christmas_; not so inevitable it would be the Bob & Doug McKenzie version ("four pounds of back bacon, three French toast, two turtlenecks and a beer... in a tree...").

"I wonder if we would have picked up on _those_ cues," Juliet said as the waiter led them to a table by the window.

He doubted it, and after they'd been left with menus, he set his down. "Tell me again this isn't simply a shared delusion."

Juliet met his gaze calmly. "I can't do that. It probably _is_ a shared delusion. But Carlton… are you doing or feeling anything against your will? Are you here now only because you think it's something _I _want and you're just humoring me?"

"No. Of course not."

"So even if it is a shared delusion, it's clear it's something we both want to see."

He couldn't fault the logic. "Then how do we know… that what we want to see is something we _should_ see? We're partners. Getting involved will make things… complicated."

She shook her head. "They're already complicated. _Life_ is complicated. Being with you all these years has been… honestly, pretty easy."

Carlton's eyebrows went up. "You're kidding, right? Maybe it's just you who's delusional."

She laughed. "No I'm not. Delusional would have been if I'd succumbed to those big blue eyes my first year here. Or if I'd been stupidly ambitious and tried to get ahead by way of our partnership."

He frowned, but had an inkling of her meaning.

"Look," she went on quietly. "I was young and ready to absorb everything I could. You're an attractive man and very intense and when I got here, I could easily have become interested in you but I knew better, thank God. At least then. I no more wanted to be accused of sleeping my way to the top than you wanted to be accused of having an affair with another partner. And even if I was that kind of woman, what good would it have done me? You and Vick are the same age. The only way you'll make Chief here and create an opening for me to advance to Head Detective is if she leaves, which I don't see happening, or if she's the victim of some political fallout. _You_ could go somewhere else to move up, but I get the feeling you like it here. Sometimes I even think you don't want to be Chief anymore."

"I don't. Not like I did. Besides," he admitted, "_you're_ here. I… I don't want to go anywhere without you. You're the best partner I've ever had and my best friend in the bargain, and where else could a man like me ever find something like that again?"

While she was smiling, the waiter brought their drinks. "I'm Jesus," he said, nobly ignoring Carlton's immediate snort, "and I'll be your server today. What can I get you folks?"

They quickly ordered pasta and salad and withheld laughter until he was out of earshot.

"Real subtle, Fate." She sipped her tea, her cheeks pink, and so beautiful he could hardly stand to remain on his side of the table.

Like every day, really.

"But to respond to what you said before… I _should_ encourage you and say you're perfectly capable of doing well anywhere else with any other partner, but the truth is, I don't _want_ you to find out if that's true."

He took in her still-pink cheeks. "You don't want me to..."

"To go, Carlton. I don't want you to go anywhere." She reached across to cover his hand, and hers was shaking a little, her blue gaze fixed on his.

"Why would I want to?" He felt helpless before the urge to... engulf her in his arms. To own her. To be owned by her.

_Like every day, really._

After lunch they strolled the boardwalk, looking in shop windows. It wasn't his usual hobby—he wasn't in the habit of merely 'taking in the sights,' because there was always crime to stop and besides, there was rarely anyone to take in sights with. But he liked it with her.

His secret appreciation for Christmas was not a secret to Juliet; he knew that already.

"What do you think we should expect for our pipers piping?" she mused.

"Well, since we know Fate likes excruciating puns, it's probably not going to be as simple as a sale on bagpipe CDs."

Juliet stopped in front of an appliance store to ponder. "No. Okay, there's pipes as in plumbing."

"And smoking. Or talking, as in piping up." He wanted to kiss her.

"Piping is also a kind of trim for clothing."

"Pastry, too, right?" Yes. He _really_ wanted to kiss her. But here in front of the window, with TVs flashing images which drew the attention of other passersby—not to mention people were going in and out of the store—was not the place.

So Juliet kissed him, standing on tiptoes to do it, and he wrapped his arms around her, lost at once in the marvel of it.

"That's better," she said with a sigh, staying close.

Someone came out of the store and eyed them disapprovingly, and Juliet shifted so she was tucked under his arm, both of them facing the TVs.

"Eleven TVs," he remarked, tightening his arm around her.

"I see that." She was amused. "But it's just some cop show, looks like. No pipers there."

"I've seen this one. I think it's a spy series." The blonde woman on screen was talking earnestly to someone they couldn't see.

She began, "I spy with my little eye—"

"—two cops who shouldn't have their arms around each other," finished Shawn Spencer, sidling up beside them, watching the woman in the TVs for a moment while they separated with relative speed.

Carlton wanted to smack him (like every day, really), but resisted for Juliet's sake. "Spencer."

"Merry Christmas, Lassie. You coming to my dad's for dinner?"

"No." He paused. "Thank you."

Juliet looked mournful. "Please?"

"I wasn't invited, and you both know I'm not really welcome anywhere."

Spencer laughed. "Sure you are. Offer to do the dishes and you'll be a damn hero. So how long's this thing been going on between you?"

Carlton couldn't answer.

Juliet said, "We've been keeping a low profile." It was a suitable evasion.

"Well, it's about time you got together," he said emphatically, and Carlton was grateful he was still looking at the TVs and not the color of his currently warm cheeks. "Come with Jules, Lassie. There's plenty of food and just as much dishwashing detergent."

"Which means you promised your father _you'd_ do the dishes, right?" Juliet suggested.

"Heard it both ways! And hey, you can meet my new girlfriend. Her name's Starr North. Cool, huh?"

Carlton could only shake his head. Why was he even surprised?

Gesturing to the TVs, Spencer said, "That show is _Covert Affairs_, by the way. Piper Perabo kicks ass." He grinned. "All eleven of her. See you at five!" He loped off.

Juliet looked at Carlton, and then at the eleven Pipers.

"Oh, my God," he muttered.

She started laughing, and it wasn't long before she'd talked him into going to Henry's with her, if only to see what Fate could cook up to go along with its weird-ass sense of humor.

**. . . .**

**. . . **


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**. . . .**

**. . .  
**

_(A/N: Sorry for the delay. Pick a reason: Christmas prep, travel related to that, almost no Internet access while away (*shiver*), ten inches of snow after freezing rain causing temporary lack of 'lectricity, general post-everything madness…)_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Henry Spencer was a larger-than-life sort of man. Carlton admitted to admiring his service record and commitment to quality police work, but on a personal level, he was never quite comfortable with his blunt nature.

Carlton himself had been called blunt, and considered it a compliment, but Henry's bluntness always had a knowing, very personal edge to it. Whereas Carlton could quickly identify and label accurately someone as an idiot ("it's called profiling"), Henry could also explain the _origins_ of the idiocy based on observations it took others a lot longer to see.

It was one reason he was absolutely certain Spencer Jr. wasn't psychic: Henry had obviously trained him well.

At any rate, it was unsettling that Henry was unfazed not only to see him arrive with Juliet, but also that he turned around just as Juliet was stealing a kiss while Carlton was standing with her near the open coat closet, trying to get a recalcitrant jacket button undone.

Caught by two Spencers in one day: yeah, he and discretion obviously weren't on speaking terms anymore.

Not that he minded the kiss, or how lovely Juliet looked with her flushed cheeks and that light in her eyes he would love to see every day for the rest of his life.

"Stop that," he told her sternly all the same, and she laughed.

Henry interrupted. "Shawn says you're doing dishes. Can I trust him?"

Carlton frowned. "Do the first sentence and the second sentence go together?"

"Good point. Put a question mark at the end of the first sentence."

"Yes, I am doing dishes. I appreciate the invitation."

Henry grinned. "I'm just glad Juliet brought a date. I was worried she was going to stay on the shelf forever."

"Henry!" she protested, reaching out to swat him, which he naturally dodged while laughing at her.

And that was it: the full extent of the Henry Spencer Inquisition.

The other guests—Guster, his parents, assorted other department personnel at loose ends for the holiday—were curious but not unduly so about Carlton with Juliet. If it had been up to him, he'd have tried to pretend they were just there as coworkers, for her reputation more than his. But Juliet kept hold of his hand quite openly, and the one time he muttered something about speaking to Vick before they outed themselves as... whatever they were, she simply said Fate had gone to so much trouble that it was inevitable everything would all work out.

How could he argue with her logic?

Especially when he didn't want to?

Spencer Junior's new girlfriend, Starr North, was a bubbly girl who seemed to know as much as he and Guster did about 80s TV and movie trivia, which made her a shoo-in for the gel-head's attentions. Guster had his own date in attendance, Jacqueline Frost, a woman from his pharmaceutical company who seemed to meet with Winnie Guster's approval (something Carlton was sure didn't come easily).

The Gusters had (apparently) forgiven him and Juliet for having arrested them in the past. Made for a nice holiday moment, not being despised.

Dinner would be turkey and ham. Henry said he'd considered making a pirducken after watching the Christmas episode of _Duck Dynasty_—a duck inside of a chicken inside of a turkey inside of a pig—but had run out of time to acquire either the pig or a large enough oven (or spit). Everyone assured him traditional preparation methods of traditional holiday foods was quite all right.

There was Christmas music throughout the house, underneath the ongoing conversations, and occasionally Carlton could make out bits of familiar lyrics. Each time, he reflected, they seemed to fit his exact frame of mind, or rather, frame of heart: _all I want for Christmas is you_… _Merry Christmas, darling… you make it feel like Christmas all year long_…

"Is this really happening to us?"

The surprising thing about the wondering tone of the question was that it came from Juliet, not him. They were standing in front of the Christmas tree, surveying the ornaments Henry had saved all these years, even the ones his son had made as a child (including some which should have been retired or 'accidentally' broken years ago).

"Uh, you're asking _me_? I'm pretty sure I once told you all romance ends in despair."

"Or death," she reminded him, smiling. "You also said people were out there just to destroy any chance of happiness I might have."

Carlton looked at her steadily. "I was speaking from personal experience."

"I know. I knew it then too." She took his hand again—she'd only let go to adjust an ornament's position, and he'd missed her warmth every second—and said more softly, "Just like I know you would never be one of those people you warned me about."

"Never," he agreed. "Not so long as I breathe."

"How long, Carlton?"

"Well, I figure I've got a good thirty, forty years in me unless I go out in the line of duty, but—"

"No," she interrupted with a laugh. "I meant, how long have you… cared for me?"

He blinked. How long had he been breathing?

No… she needed a real answer.

"I figured it out when you reconnected with Scott Seaver."

Juliet stared at him. "But that was the same time you told me romance was doomed."

"I know. Again, I was speaking from personal experience." He was wry. "I could see he was a good guy. I could see he was better for you than gel-head over there and by God he was better for you than _I _was. It hurt, and I didn't want to think about why it hurt, but it just kept staring me in the face until I had no choice but to accept it."

Her tone was soft. "But you… you gave me your blessing, in a way. With Scott."

"Yeah." He felt fidgety. "Accepting I was in love with you meant also accepting you deserved to be happy more than I deserved something I was bound to screw up for the both of us."

"Oh, Carlton." She slid her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. "You've hidden so much innate… goodness from the world. From me."

He sighed against her fragrant hair. "Not true. I'm a tough and unfeeling robot bastard."

"Screw that." She lifted her head and smiled tremulously at him. "You are not, and besides, I _want_ the mushy side."

Very much afraid she was going to elicit full-out mushiness from him in view of everyone else at Henry's, he steeled himself against the emotion evident in her lovely dark blue eyes and cleared his throat. "Okay. Well. Not the place."

Good call too, because when they turned to face the room, Winnie Guster was beaming at them and whispering to her husband, and Shawn Spencer raised a glass of what Carlton hoped was eggnog (it was greenish) in their direction.

"There's a Christmas miracle right in front of us," he commented as his personal Starr grasped his arm. "Juliet O'Hara has melted Frosty the Icicle Man."

"_Snow_ man," Gus corrected him.

"No, I'm sticking with Icicle. Lassie's no mere ball of snowflakes. Snow's hard to keep together. Ice, now, ice is—"

"Shut it, Shawn," Juliet said pleasantly, and the others laughed. "In fact, keep it shut for the foreseeable future."

"Hear, hear," Carlton agreed, and was never so glad to see a man with a ham as he was when Henry carried in the last platter and set it on the table.

"The feast is served!" Henry declared, and the group assembled to stuff themselves senseless.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet watched Carlton wash the fourth pot. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie long discarded. He was well-fed and relaxed and she absolutely loved seeing him like this. He'd reluctantly allowed her to dry, having been prepared to do everything himself, but she'd pointed out (with a bump to his hip) that drying would allow for legitimate proximity.

He'd bumped her hip back and bent down to kiss her lightly, not having any idea how much she wanted to hoist herself up on the counter and start unbuttoning his shirt right there.

But maybe he did, because there was a dark and dangerous cast to his piercing blue gaze, and his voice was a bit husky when he advised her to get that look off her face before he caused a spectacle which would get them thrown out of Henry's for good and possibly give Winnie Guster a coronary in the process.

Flush with delicious heat, Juliet wisely picked up her towel and started drying.

"Thanks for pushing me to come over here," he said after a moment, scrubbing the fifth pot clean.

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Nope." He smiled: one of those rare smiles which stripped away the layers of heart-protecting armor.

"Then you're welcome. I thought you were going to complain about dishpan hands."

He pulled one long graceful specimen out of the soapy water and inspected it. "I'll survive." He glanced at her meaningfully. "Unless you'd prefer a softer touch."

Juliet felt that delicious heat returning. "Oh. Um. Well. I…"

Carlton was laughing—and looking a bit prideful—when Henry came in.

"Thanks for the cleanup, Lassiter. You're going above and beyond what I expected. Of course," he added judiciously, "my standard is the promises _Shawn_ keeps, which are, shall we say, infrequent."

Juliet had no doubt of that.

Carlton dried his hands and faced him fully. "You know I'm a man of my word, Henry."

"Yes, I do." Henry reached past Juliet to pick up a dry pot and put it away. "So what finally put you two together?"

She felt oddly unembarrassed saying it. "A song."

"Ah. A song you'd never heard before, which seemed written just for you?" He was amused.

"No, actually," Carlton said. "It's a song we've both heard a million times before."

"But never at the same time?"

Juliet thought about it; the odds of them _not_ having heard _Twelve Days_ together at the Christmas season over the years were pretty low. "No, we've heard it together before." She looked at Carlton, and he nodded.

Henry folded his arms. "Then it's Fate."

After a pregnant-with-triplets pause, Carlton asked carefully, "How do you figure?"

"Well, how else do you explain that a song you've heard a million times should suddenly get you to see each other in a new light? Something happened, right? Don't tell me," he warned. "I really do _not_ want to know. The point is, Fate uses whatever tools are at her disposal to accomplish her goals."

"Fate's toolbox is full of some weird-ass crap," Carlton muttered.

Juliet grinned. "He's right about that. But Henry, I didn't think you were the kind of guy who'd put much stock in Fate."

"Hey, Fate is Fate. Or God. Or something bigger than us, anyway, and if you learn anything in life, it should be that there is _always_ someone—or something—bigger than you out there." He laughed. "Or _up_ there. And in your case, it got tired of waiting for you two to figure out what some of us saw a long time ago."

Blushing down to her toes, and sensing the same reaction from Carlton without even daring to look at him, Juliet tried to think of _anything_ coherent to say in the thirty seconds Henry spent laughing at their mutual discomfiture.

"Just take it slow, kids." He put away a frying pan, and threw another grin their way. "But not as slow as you've taken it the past few years. Hell, you'll be ready for the nursing home if you go much slower."

That roused Carlton to peg a damp sponge at him, and Henry darted out of the kitchen before more trouble could come his way.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was nearly midnight, and on Henry's doorstep in the chilly December dark, Juliet leaned against him, sighing. "You're coming over, right? Like you promised?"

"Did I promise?" He was only kidding: he'd go anywhere she asked. Even a harp concert.

"I _may_ have assumed you weren't going to argue with me."

"Oh, I would not _presume_ to argue with you." Despite the surprise of enjoying himself rather immensely on the other side of that door, he'd been ready since before they arrived to be alone with her again.

Juliet smiled and slid her hands under his jacket, warming his skin through the shirt and sending his pulse into overdrive. "Then let's go, Wise Man."

He followed her over to her place, where the Christmas lights around her window blinked merrily, and even the wreath on her door seemed to welcome him in.

The apartment smelled of cinnamon candles and apple pie, and Juliet urged him out of his jacket and into her arms before the door had even fully closed.

He kissed her slowly, tasting her fully, reveling in the feel of her moving against him. This was real. It was.

"You kiss so very well, Carlton Lassiter." She planted a trail of kisses down his throat to where his collar began, and sighed when he nuzzled her earlobe. Shivering, she pressed herself to him. "I wish I'd known sooner."

"So do I," he agreed, "but then Fate would have had to pick on some other couple this season."

Her mouth was so warm and insistent. He suspected it wasn't just Juliet having a little trouble keeping in an upright position, so he drew her to sit with him on the sofa.

She turned off the lamp—only the Christmas tree lights provided a beautiful, colorful glow to the room—and wrapped herself around him, soft and curvy and pliant.

He was completely unable to imagine ever having been separate from her before—or again in the future. "Juliet," he whispered. "You are the ultimate Christmas gift."

Her eyes were luminous despite the dim light, and he closed his when she kissed him again, but it wouldn't have mattered if they'd been wide open, because the only sensation he could register was the enormity of being with her, in all its iterations—and so far it was only kissing.

And bodies tight together, molding together in all the right places.

And hearts pounding.

And pulses racing.

And heat, and emotion, and years of longing interlaced with complete trust that this was real and final and not to be escaped—forget Fate; _Carlton_ wouldn't allow it now, and he knew down to his last fast-moving blood cell that Juliet felt the same way.

It shouldn't have been possible for her to care about him: he was a wreck of anti-social and borderline neurotic tendencies. He was older and people didn't like him and she was beautiful and generous of heart and nature.

But… _she was here_. In his lap, her sweet warm mouth locked to his, one arm flung around his neck while with her free hand she was busy unbuttoning his shirt.

_She was here_ as he unbuttoned her blouse and tugged it out of her jeans, and sighing when he licked her lips. Trembling when he kissed her throat and moved south, her blouse open and her warm, soft skin so delicious to his seeking mouth.

_She was here_. With _him_.

The clock on the mantel chimed midnight, hardly a blip on his consciousness.

He and Juliet sank to the floor in front of the Christmas tree and made love, slow and sweet and perfect, and after, she pulled pillows and a velvety throw off the sofa for them, returning to his arms and seeming completely content to lie there draped across him.

"Merry Christmas, Carlton." The twinkling lights from the tree gave a rosy glow to her face, and he thought for the millionth time she was the most beautiful creature in God's world.

"Merry Christmas, my love," he murmured, for she was… and he knew he was hers.

She didn't object anyway, saying only, "It _is_ Christmas now, you know. Half past midnight."

"So it is." He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, smiling at her shivering. "Best ever."

"And it's the twelfth day. We had eleven Piper Perabos piping up, ten British Lords a-leaping over a rat, nine naked ceramic ladies dancing, eight maids of Milliken, seven Swanns a-swimming…" She trailed off.

Carlton picked it up. "_Six Geese A-Laying_, five golden onion rings, four crystal Colly birds, three French Faverolle hens, two chocolate turtle doves—though I still think that was kind of a reach—and a Partridge on Peartree."

She laughed. "It is pretty crazy, isn't it. Any theories about the drummers?"

"Just one." He pointed to his chest.

Juliet touched his skin—his turn to shiver—and gave him a questioning look.

"There's at least twelve in there going at it right now." He smiled. "Truth is they've been pounding away since this started, and every day since we found the stupid geese, I've thought I might be about to have a heart attack."

Her mouth was open slightly in surprise, and he leaned in to kiss her. The drummers, oddly, settled down a bit.

"Carlton," she whispered.

"Damned drum corps in there, O'Hara. Can't you hear it?"

She stared, her smile slow and wondering.

"So it doesn't matter whether your neighbors put on an impromptu drum parade at dawn, or if twelve drums of oil roll down the street or twelve drum fish drop from the sky or if the next twelve times we turn on the radio we hear _Little Drummer Boy_. These guys," and he punctuated it by covering her hand on his chest with his own, hoping she could feel his heartbeat, "are enough proof for me."

Juliet started shaking, and pressed herself close to him; he enveloped her in his arms more tightly than he could ever imagine holding another human being, yet still she seemed to want more. More closeness. More him. More _them_.

"I love you, Carlton." It came out preceded by a sniffle. "Probably for a lot longer than I even understand."

"Don't think about it too much," he advised her, and she laughed. "I don't want to jinx it."

"Fate wouldn't let you," she countered. "Not now."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm hardly ever wrong, and exhibit number one is you, Carlton."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I knew you were a treasure years ago."

"Buried deep, and rightfully so."

She nipped at his earlobe, and he laughed even as it stung. "Stop that. I've dug you up and you are mine. Finders' keepers."

Carlton didn't want to be anyone else's, and told her so; she pulled him to lie half on her, under the soft throw, sighing at the sensation of their bodies together.

"Just as well about the drum fish," she commented, drawing lazy circles on his shoulders with one warm fingertip.

"Yeah. They're hard to cook right."

"Oil might have been nice. Good eBay sale."

"We'll probably be awake at dawn anyway, so the neighbors' show would be okay."

"You don't plan to sleep much tonight?" Juliet teased, and shivered when he kissed her hard. "Mmmm, me either."

She insinuated her leg between his, which made him feel a little dizzy. "But I draw the line," he declared, "at twelve _Little Drummer Boys_. I hate that song."

"Oh, I know. I have your 'if I hear one more pa rum pum pum pum I'm going to pa rum pum pum pum someone in the damn nose' rant memorized."

He had to laugh, despite the gentle mockery, but the laughter stopped when the movement of her thigh between his became more deliberate.

"Okay. No more talk," he said breathlessly, and they sank back into renewed passion for each other, by the glow of the twinkling Christmas tree lights.

And Fate, to be sure, was happy with a job well done.

Fate even went so far as to have Noelle Singer's boyfriend Nick Shepherd turn himself in the day after Christmas, confessing to the burglaries and to the unintentional shooting of Mr. Carroll. His cohorts, Franklin Sentz, Murphy Gold and Gloria Wiseman, also came forward, and after processing them through, Carlton and Juliet braced themselves for _real_ trouble and went to speak with Chief Vick about their relationship.

She said she was surprised to find out it was _new_.

She even said she thought they'd been involved for a very long time and had merely maintained appropriate levels of discretion.

When they stared at each other in mutual surprise, Vick laughed. "It's always so entertaining when clueless people figure out they're in love after everyone else already knows."

_That_, Carlton figured, was Fate having one last snicker at their expense.

But then on the other hand, he had Juliet now. If he'd been _played_ by Fate into that happy state of affairs, well, Fate could snicker all damned year.

"It really has been a wonderful Christmas," he murmured to Juliet as they exited Vick's office.

"The first of many, Carlton."

With a smile that lit the room, she slipped her hand into his and suggested a private coffee break somewhere away from the station, and neither one noticed Sergeant Allen humming _The Twelve Days of Christmas_ when they stopped to sign out.

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**. .**

**F I N**


End file.
